Virility
by QuiaVeritatis
Summary: My entry for the adult category of the Phoenix V Competition


Virility

Rated NC-17

Entry for Adult category of Phoenix Competition

First Place winner.

* * *

It is V. He is fencing with the battered suit of armor again. Evey ducks back into the shadows of her room. He doesn't see me. Good. I don't want him to stop. I want to watch. 

She peeks around the door jab. One eye sees him, in his fencing tunic and watered silk blouse. He is wearing black trousers, and those sleek leather boots, lovingly rubbed every night with oil until they glisten. The blouse shimmers under the hundred tiny lights of the chandelier. Evey moves further from the doorjamb, gazes at him now with both eyes. He is handling the foil, but wears his long knives on his belt. Six long knives, their smooth round pommels erect around his waist, glinting as he moves.

V lunges, touches the armor with the tip of his long sword. One long leg stretches out behind him, the other flexed, strong and ready. With a swift movement, he recovers to en guard, saluting his steel opponent. Evey holds her breath as he spins, lithe as a dancer, the blade arcing over his head to point-in-line. He holds the position for two beats of her heart, before breaking into another lunge and touching the chest of his rival. Evey takes in every supple movement, every bulge of muscle, and every flash of steel. She moves closer to him, out of the doorway and slipping behind a statue of Eros to watch his dance of death.  
His exertion demands he breathe. She hears the rough sound of his breath against the mask. Another lunge, another thrust, and he is breathing, in and out in and out, the steel flashes again overhead. The tip pierces the air in front of him and Evey feel as breathless as he. She slides her hand slowly down over the gentle curves of her breasts, past the plain of her belly and down into the downy cleft between her legs. A long slender finger finds home. She makes a small sound. She longs to close her eyes and focus on the pleasure between her thighs, but she cannot take her eyes from his body. Each thrust of his arm, every lunge of his thigh and every crunch of his boot on stone is felt on her body. Her finger moves and she gasps. He lunges, her finger lunges; he thrusts, her finger thrusts. Her eyes begin to roll upwards, she cannot stop them. Her pleasure is obscuring her vision, her breath, her world. If she can no longer see him, the memory of his brandished steel and vigorous prodding…she gasps. Powerful waves of pleasure radiate from the small wet cleft. Evey moans, leaning against the wall, not caring if he hears her now. She is enveloped in her own delight.

Now she hears a boot step, feels a puff of air. Her eyes fly open. He has discovered her hiding place. The mask is upon her and there is a metallic clang as he drops the sword at her feet. He speaks no words, but lifts her into his arms and carries her to the bed, lays her down on the soft blankets. She puts her arms around his neck, pulls him down to her so she can breathe in his scent. Silk and leather, man and skin; he breathes her in as well. He whispers her name, so soft, like the rustle of leaves. Evey. She feels the velvety leather as he smoothes his gloved hand over her breasts, then down her belly and now his finger replaces hers. She arches her back with delight as the warm leather reaches and searches for it, yes, there. He has found it. She pants, don't stop, she breathes, but he does. He stops for only a moment before she feels something else. Something cool and hard enters her, gliding in, rigid, unbreakable, exquisite. She sighs. It is the pommel of a long knife that she feels moving inside her. He moves it in and out, slowly, touching her cleft with his glove every other stroke. It is exquisite. Evey has forgotten to breathe, remembers with a gasp at that final moment with the final thrust. She parries with her hips, arching, the spasm consumes her and she cries out, reaching for him.

He moves over her, looming, hot with exercise. The mask floats above her face, close, not cold, but warm with his own arousal. She feels the waft of his breath on her ear as he whispers, "Touché".


End file.
